


The Client

by Saladscream



Series: The Ice King [1]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, First Time, M/M, POV First Person, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 14:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5788381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saladscream/pseuds/Saladscream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack meets a new client.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Client

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to Pepe for the beta.
> 
> Dedicated to Pepe, Berty and Nicci. Thank you, girls. You rock the fandom. ;)

His eyes are steel blue – no nonsense. 

He starts sizing me up as soon as he opens the door. Taking in my designer jeans, the way my trendy black t-shirt clings to my chest under the leather jacket. I know I cut quite a figure. First impressions and all that. 

“Hello. I’m Jack,” I introduce myself.

He listens. Trying to decide if he likes the sound of my voice. My, aren’t we difficult to please.

His focussed gaze lingers on my face. His eyes catch on my throat, my mouth, the scar in my eyebrow, my hair. I stopped bothering to dye it a long time ago – once I realized the silver fox thing was an asset, not a hindrance.

I cock my head expectantly. Not exactly getting any younger here.

He gives a hint of a nod and walks away from me, leaving me to close the door.

Looks like I’ve passed muster.

The suite is all plush, sophisticated luxury in beige and brown with discreet touches of minty colours to give it a little zing. Picture windows, tasteful couch and chairs, a Jacuzzi behind an artful screen. A bed the size of a small African country from what I can see through an open doorway. We have money, it seems.

I remove my jacket and place it on the back of the couch where I can access supplies easily.

He now stands at the bar, pouring himself a drink, and it’s my turn to threat assess him. 

Tall-ish, broad shoulders, short hair, a well-defined profile. 

Slim hips that send a frisson of something coursing down my back. 

He’s wearing an odd combination of chic white shirt and hip, dark tweed jacket with black Dockers pants that hug all the right places. Who knew tweed was back in fashion? I certainly didn’t. 

It’s hard to pin an occupation on him. There’s a serious, thoughtful air about him that seems to have etched a permanent chevron on his brow, so I’d go for something intellectual. Finance? Science? Humanities? That is not to say he couldn’t be a plumber or a rodeo clown. Appearances can be deceiving like that. Not that I know any plumber who could afford such accommodation.

He turns to me, the crystal decanter suspended over a glass in a mute offer. 

I nod my acceptance. “Thanks.” 

He serves me, places the decanter back on the tray and walks to a strange, comfortable-looking armchair with his drink. I take my glass from the counter and follow suit. Park my ass on the couch.

Not the talkative type, then.

We sip our drinks in silence. Good bourbon. There’s something in the set of his jaw that tells me he’s mulling something over, out of bounds for the moment. 

I’m used to awkward starts. It takes some experience to find a natural way of initiating this sort of interaction. The important thing is to be ready to smile about it, make light of it. Laughter is sexy. Too few people are aware of that.

I take in his standoffish expression again. He has nice lips but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t smile very often. The mere idea of a full belly laugh has probably never even crossed his busy mind. Not sure I can do anything to change that. Shame – happiness would suit him. 

The muted notes of a cell phone fill the space, breaking the non-existent mood; he pulls out the device from a pocket and checks the screen.

“Sorry, I have to take this,” he says, purely out of habit. The first words he’s actually spoken to me.

He answers the call. His voice is low and soft. Quite compelling. He talks like someone aware that he tends to speak too fast, forcing himself to slow down the flow of words. I detect a slight accent. Canadian? European?

With a sidelong glance at me, he gets up and goes to the picture window a few feet away, still talking to his interlocutor. 

He doesn’t like being analysed. 

That’s what the drink offer was about, I realize: he sensed me perusing him and he got me sidetracked.

I appreciate the smoothness of the decoy retrospectively.

I turn and watch the way the late afternoon sun backlights him. Watch the way the muscles in his ass bunch and relax as he sways in front of the glass; he’s probably utterly oblivious to the impressive view. I’m definitely not.

The telephone conversation is winding up and now is the perfect time to ease him into things. I finish my drink and get up. 

He disconnects, then stares at the screen for a few seconds – enters something in his diary. I’m now standing only a breath away, behind him and slightly to the right. In his peripheral vision he suddenly sees my reflection in the window. For the briefest instant there’s something unguarded in his eyes. Wariness, defiance. 

Then it’s the Iron Curtain again.

He turns around, slipping the cell phone back into his pocket, and I’m right here to intercept him before he makes his escape.

He tenses fractionally as the back of my fingers brush his cheek on their way to the side of his neck. Then his breathing deepens and he gradually thaws into it all.

I lean into his space, neither confident nor tentative; he has to know that this is not me encroaching upon him. It’s just business. Only what he’s paying me for.

I don’t know if kissing is off-limits or not, we didn’t discuss it, so I go slow. Telegraph the move. Surprise registers in a further contraction of his frown but he doesn’t stop me. 

I keep leaning in and we simply make contact. A closed-mouth kiss that tastes of bourbon. He responds. I knew his lips would be eminently kissable.

We’re now chest to chest and technically sharing breath: it’s progress. I try a little tongue action and he doesn’t complain, but he doesn’t really follow my lead either. Being polite more than anything else. I can sense he’s not really into kissing, though, so I don’t insist.

I leave his lips and nibble his jaw instead, softly biting my way down to his neck. I catch the vibration of a soundless moan; it makes me smile. His skin is good and sweet, and I unthinkingly undo the top buttons of his shirt to get better access to it.

I realize what I’ve done when a hand comes to my chest and pushes me a little; I put up no resistance and let go of him. Dammit.

“Take your shirt off,” he says with quiet authority.

And so it begins. 

I peel off my t-shirt and let it drop where we stand. 

This is what we discussed, what he specifically asked for. He commands, I obey. I get some leeway in terms of initiative, but I’m not allowed anything fancy. Like undressing him, for instance. Unless he asks for it.

His gaze is ice blue and seems almost emotionless when he cups the back of my head with his right hand. The left hand hooks the waistband at the front of my jeans, the back of his fingers cool against my skin – he pulls me into a kiss. It’s surprisingly gentle, belying the assertiveness of his moves. Again, it’s a closed mouth kiss, though the tip of his tongue sometimes comes to brush across my lips.

My hands have slid under the tweed jacket to hover at his waist. Don’t know if this is okay or not, but in the absence of reproof I hold him there while we kiss with increasing gusto.

He suddenly breaks away, and I’m glad to see some colour flushing up his otherwise carefully schooled expression. He releases me and walks back to the lounge area. He fishes his cell phone out of his pocket again, turns it off and dumps it on a book lying on the artsy coffee table.

“Take your boots off. Bare feet,” he tells me simply as he sits back in the armchair. 

I do as requested and put my boots and socks out of the way. Meanwhile, his features have regained their trademark aloofness and his posture has widened on the seat: his eyes never leave me as he pops the button of his pants and cants his hips up and forward. He’s still wearing that ridiculously swanky jacket, his shirt is half undone and his pants are hanging open, but there’s something quite regal about his appearance in spite of everything. I smile suavely as I get down on one knee in front of him.

“Blow me,” he instructs calmly. 

Now I don’t get fazed easily, but I have to say that the quiet precision of the crude words in his articulate speech and velvet voice catches me unawares. 

The zipper is already almost all the way down due to the strain applied by his open legs, unveiling an enticing triangle of bare skin. He’s gone commando so my work is going to be easy: I may not even need to use my hands. 

I take my time and slowly caress his lower belly with my parted lips. My hands slide under his shirt, fingers splaying over his sides, my forearms cradling his hips. His erection, still half trapped within the confines of his pants, swells hard against my throat. Under my arms, the muscles in his thighs are quivering. He smells good. There’s the clean musky scent of an expensive body wash. And then there’s him: male, aroused, earthy. 

I grab at his pants and pull them down his thighs a little. He helps with a shimmy of his hips. It’s enough to free his cock. It looks too rigid for its own good. I catch it in my mouth and start to swallow it down slowly but surely, giving him time to get used to the sensations of my lips sucking on the crown, of my tongue working over the silky length. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of his hands clench white-knuckled on the armrest. He tilts his head back so I can’t see his face. That’s right, your highness: I’m good at this.

So good that after about a couple of minutes, he’s poised on the verge of achieving orbit and fighting very hard not to thrust his way into oblivion. That’s when his right hand slides into my hair unexpectedly, fingers tense and unsure. 

“Do you swallow?” he finds enough breath to ask. 

I don’t know how I don’t cream my pants right there and then. That voice. So educated, so soft-spoken, yet so undone. Uttering such dirty things. I’m only human.

Barely slowing down my ministrations, I nod in response and hug his hips harder.

He erupts in my mouth a few wet strokes after that, a strained, voluptuous “ahhh” on his lips.

And indeed I swallow as his cock spurts sharply over my tongue.

It takes him a minute to get his breathing under control and his composure back. A minute I spend stroking his thighs gently, tucking his softening cock back into his pants.

Then he sits up; I move to get out of his way and let him stand up. 

He walks a little stiffly to the bathroom without a word. When he reaches the door, he turns to me. 

“Don’t go,” he tells me before disappearing. 

Not going anywhere.

I’m not sure I could go anywhere under my own steam, actually. My right leg is filled with pins and needles and my erection hates me. I crawl up and sit on the couch. Hear the shower go on in the bathroom. I think I know where this is going; it spells good news for my erection. I sit back in the couch, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. Long minutes go by.

When he comes out of the bathroom, all guarded expression and flawless skin, he’s only wearing a ridiculously small towel around his middle: it’s valiantly hugging his ass and it’s sexy beyond words. I’m on my feet and closing in on him before I realize it.

“You can use the bathroom,” he says, meeting my eyes with a distant, though not unkind, look. “I’ll be waiting in the bedroom.” 

I watch his towel-clad ass leave. 

Can’t help thinking: sometimes, this job is easy. 

I take care of things in the bathroom quickly and efficiently: all I need is a little mouthwash, after all.

“Have you got condoms?” he asks as I enter the bedroom.

I’m pleased to notice a plural here and pull a couple of packets out of my back pocket.

“Lubricant?” I ask in turn.

“Nightstand, but you shouldn’t need it.”

The statement hangs in the air. I take note and carry on.

Once again I approach, this time I place my hands carefully at his waist. The towel is slightly damp and his skin is cool under my touch. He smells of that expensive body wash and I kiss him. He goes with the flow, even when I open his mouth and delve in with my tongue. He responds, complacently. His hands come to my shoulders, capable and warm. One coils at the nape of my neck while the other slides down my chest, nails lightly grazing over my nipple.

Then he breaks the kiss quietly.

“From behind,” he instructs. “I don’t want to see you naked.”

I have to admit, this is one strange request. It’s a good thing this job has taught me not to take things too personally. And I understand now why I’m still in my jeans.

“How hard do you want it?” I ask.

He seems to consider it. It is difficult for him to answer the question when he doesn’t know how big I am. 

“Let’s just say I need to be able to walk tomorrow morning.” The ghost of a wry smile curves his lips, giving me a pleasant little jolt in the guts. And I believe that is the longest sentence I’ve heard from him since we met about forty minutes ago. Will wonders never cease?

He turns away from me. He’s facing the side of the bed and has his broad, strong back to me. He unwraps the towel from his hips and lets it fall on the mattress. He’s totally naked and serving himself up on a plate. The curve of his ass is incredibly alluring. I snake an arm around his waist and hold him close against me, my lips finding the side of his neck and nibbling a hot trail down to his shoulder.

“Can I play rough?” I purr against his skin. Not that I intend to, but I’d just like to make him sweat a little.

“If that’s what you need. I don’t mind.”

I’m beginning to wonder if there’s anything I can do that might make him react in some unguarded, spontaneous way.

My hands slide to the front and start to wander over his abs: he’s not what you’d call ripped but there’s no soft pouch here either. There’s a small scar on his right side that I hadn’t noticed before and he starts when my fingers trace it.

“Painful?” I ask. I need to know if I have to be careful. 

“No.”

I continue the peaceful exploring. One of my hands feels up his torso while the other closes around his reawakening erection. His cock twitches interestedly, so I stroke along it, all the while tweaking a nipple. He shudders against me, a breathy moan almost escaping his lips. I hold him a little tighter in response, biting the perfect flesh of his shoulder. He can feel how rigid I am through my jeans.

The sound of my zipper is obscenely loud in the silence, and his head tilts forward as helpless goose bumps race down his arms. I’m sure he thinks I can’t notice these things. 

Without losing too much contact, I manage to push my jeans down and kick them behind me. We’re now even, sartorially speaking. Fingertips at his waist, I slide my cock over his backside until it rests snugly between his ass cheeks. The view is amazing.

All too soon he breaks away from me and assumes the position on the bed with slow grace. The view gets better, in a way.

I retrieve the lube from the nightstand, and deftly roll on a condom before kneeling between his calves. He’s got a great ass and I can see he’s prepared himself, his hole soft and shiny. I clamp a hand around the base of my cock as the sight sends shivers right down to my balls. In a futile attempt at temporizing, I slick myself up: there’s no such thing as too much lube, after all.

I gently drag a knuckle down his ass crack, to let him know I’m ready. It catches on his opening, making it wink.

“Don’t use your fingers,” he chides me, his voice tight and breathless.

I want to tell him I wasn’t going to. I got that about him. He doesn’t want anything too personal. He doesn’t want my tongue in his mouth or my fingers in his ass. He doesn’t even want to see what my cock looks like. What he wants is a blowjob and a fuck on his own terms, period.

I cup his ass, my thumbs smoothly prying his ass cheeks apart as I slowly enter him. He’s tight in spite of the preparation and he makes a conscious effort not to tense. I stop before I’m fully sheathed inside him. He needs time to adjust. We’re not in a hurry. Besides, I could use some time to cool off a bit. His ass is gripping me hot and tight, and the sound of his open-mouthed breathing is addictive. 

I look down. With my thumbs, I softly stroke his wet opening where it stretches around my invasion. And what follows catches us both unprepared. He moans in dismayed pleasure at the sensation, a sound so purely sexual and uncontrolled that it crashes through me, battering my stamina. It’s almost more than I can take. Before I can stop myself, I’m burying my cock in his body, up to the hilt, with a possessive grunt I’m not too proud of.

And I’m afraid the rest is appallingly unprofessional, because suddenly I’m forgetting he’s a client, I’m forgetting I need to keep my distance. I’m also forgetting he has precise, contracted expectations and paid-for requirements that need to be met. There’s suddenly only one thing left in my blood-deprived brain: I want to hear that sound again. 

So I fuck him with everything I have, every trick I know. Not because I’m a seasoned pro who likes a satisfied customer and polishes his reputation, but because I need to wrench that sound out of him again.

And I do wrench lots of sounds out of him – moans and groans and gasps, all good, honest and pleasure-filled – but none of them compares to that first cry. The one that let me hear the real _him_. The real man hiding behind the barriers, the walls and decoys.

No matter how long I last or how many times I hammer his prostate, I still can’t access him. His body turns soft, hot and pliant between my hands, yet _he_ remains out of reach in a world of his own.

He comes before I can give him a reach around – without even having to touch himself. He just arches back against my thrusts and comes with a harsh groan trapped behind clenched teeth and sealed lips.

And that’s it. It’s over. His ass clamps down hard on my cock, wringing a long-delayed orgasm out of me. It’s brutal and almost unsatisfying, and I do my best to choke down the enraged roar trying to climb out of my throat.

We’re sweaty, shuddering and panting as inconspicuously as possible as I carefully pull out of him. While I dispose of the rubber, he collapses shamelessly on the bed, barely bothering to leave enough space for me. Post-coital cuddling doesn’t seem to be on our agenda.

I come back from the bathroom with supplies to clean him up. I consider it part of the service.

Eyes closed and boneless, he lets me handle him, wash him summarily, dry him. 

“Thanks,” he croaks. Then he rolls onto his side and falls asleep.

I don’t forget to put my jeans back on.

The epilogue to this is underwhelming.

Half an hour later I wake up as he stirs: he doesn’t seem to take exception to the arm I have casually thrown around his middle. After a minute, he rolls away and leaves the bed, though. 

A brief trip to the bathroom and he finds me sitting on the edge of the bed. I’m still shirtless and barefoot, ready to either fuck off or go for round two – whichever it’ll be. 

“Thank you, that’ll be all for tonight,” he says, putting as much awkward kindness as he can into the words.

I nod and leave the bedroom.

There’s a small wad of brand new dollar bills on the coffee table – I even got a tip. A happy customer, I surmise.

I get dressed and pocket my fee.

He joins me at the door before I make my exit, beautiful and distant in his pristine bathrobe.

“I will call you again sometime,” he says.

“Satisfied, I take it?” I ask, suave with a touch of irreverence. I can do smokescreens, too. I need to dispel the odd mix of elation and dread that his words have just planted in the pit of my stomach.

His mouth curves into an amused half-smile that reaches his cold blue eyes.

“You’re skilled,” he admits, a soupcon of indulgence in his soft, educated voice.

I cup his cheek, the gesture slow and deliberate, and kiss him. Closed mouth, of course.

He lets me.

Then I open the door and leave my client to his lonely world.

 

***End of Chapter 1***


End file.
